


Entangled

by PeriPeriwinkle



Series: TMA Kinktober 2020 [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Light BDSM, M/M, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Being asexual doesn't mean having zero interest in anything kinky, and Martin is more than willing to help Jon explore his fantasies.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Kinktober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180709
Comments: 4
Kudos: 86





	Entangled

Jon is asexual. But exactly what that means is much more complicated than just these three words.

Being asexual means he doesn’t feel sexual attraction to people, and he’s mostly _indifferent_ to sex. Indifferent, however, doesn’t mean he never has sex _ever_ , or that he’s wholly opposed to the idea; it just never strikes him as a want or a need as it (apparently) does for most people. He and Georgie tried being intimate a few times, but she was more used to people taking the initiative towards her rather than the other way around, and thus saw Jon’s lack of initiative as a complete lack of interest. Which, well, she wasn’t exactly _wrong_ , but also, just because he wasn’t interested it didn’t mean he was completely _against_ it. If Jon’s partner expresses interest in rewatching a movie with him, a movie he mostly finds to be _just okay_ , he’ll gladly sit through it and enjoy their time together, because it means he gets to spend time with a loved one and it brings them joy to share that experience with him.

It takes some extensive explaining and reassuring for this concept to get through to Martin, but after that he’s much more comfortable asking Jon for sex, always making sure he’s feeling up for it before initiating anything and not insisting if Jon shows the littlest signs of not being in the mood, which Jon appreciates and is grateful for. Martin is, by far, the most caring and most understanding partner he’s ever had, and the main reason for that is how much they communicate, talk about things that are uncomfortable but important. It always takes a bit to coax Jon out of his shell and get him to open up, and Martin is just the right amount of gentle yet firm to get them talking about things that matter, even if it makes them uncomfortable, no matter how hard it is. Things that are essential they talk about if they want their relationship to work—and they both well and truly want that very, very much.

They also talk about relatively smaller things, as one is wont to do when in a relationship, which is how Martin ends up sharing his past experience in their local kink community, and how Jon ends up confessing to being curious about the whole scene but never comfortable enough to engage with it, especially not on his own.

Martin lifts a brow, curiosity piqued. “What are you interested in doing, exactly?” He asks, and Jon squirms in his seat next to Martin, embarrassed.

“W-well. A few things, really. Mostly watching. _Maybe_ engaging, b-but. I don’t like the idea of strangers touching me or, or _seeing_ me.”

Martin pauses, looks at Jon in a way that speaks _volumes_.

“You said ‘seeing’, not ‘watching’. Is there something more to that?”

Jon fiddles with the hem of his sweater; Martin is sometimes too observant for his own good. He takes a deep breath and powers through.

“I might not mind people watching if, well. There’s a, um, _anonymity_ factor. In all my fantasies I’m either wearing a mask or obscuring my face somehow. That always makes the whole concept more comfortable for me. I don’t mind the idea of people watching me if I’m concealed, if they don't really know _who_ I am, if that makes sense.”

Martin nods, a small smile on his lips as he seems to absorb this information. He takes Jon’s hand in his and kisses his knuckles, smiling.

“Thank you for telling me this. I know it wasn’t easy,” he says, but before Jon can respond he gets that look to him that Jon knows means the gears in his brain are turning, so he pauses and waits to hear what Martin has in mind. “If I told you I might be able to arrange this…” he finally says after a long pause, and Jon widens his eyes, cheeks warming up as he blushes at the mere thought. “…how amenable to it would you be?”

\---

Martin hands their ID at the door, and the lady upfront smiles. “Martin, love! It’s been ages since I last saw you.”

“Good to see you too, Linda. This is my partner, Jon. He’s new to the scene but I can vouch for him.”

Jon waves weakly, and Linda flashes him a broad, friendly smile. She’s far from intimidating, but he has a feeling she could very well be if she had to. She hands them their IDs back and nods. “Welcome, dear. I hope you two enjoy yourselves tonight. You have your masks with you, yes?”

“Yup,” and Martin takes them out of his tote bag, which they both put over their eyes. Linda nods, clearly satisfied, and opens the door to the house.

“Have fun, dearies.”

Earlier, Jon fretted over somehow standing out with the mask designs they both chose—he has a black and silver carnival mask that elongates into a long beak over his nose, which hides his mouth but doesn’t completely block it, and Martin has a Mardi Gras mask in white, black, red and gold, which covers his nose and upper lip, complete with two cat ears at the top—but as soon as they walk into the house he realizes he hadn’t need to worry after all; where Jon opted for a simple and neat mask, most people decidedly took the opportunity to be as over the top as possible. Some people have pet play leather masks on (which doesn’t surprise him in the least), a couple of others sport heavily-decorated plague doctor masks (which _does_ surprise him) and he even spots someone in a court jester mask, complete with long and colourful feathers at the top. There’s the occasional plain mask here and there, but most are purposefully ornate and detailed. Jon looks around in wonder at everyone’s outfits and choice of facewear.

They sit down at a couple of beanbags to sip at the bottled drinks they took from the fridge—non-alcoholic, per the house rules, so Jon goes for something fruity and citric—and relax for a bit, getting acquainted with their surroundings. Jon watches as two couples play pool, laughing when one of them tries a flashy play and misses their mark by a mile, then turns to observe the six people sitting at the L-shaped sofa in the opposite corner, talking spiritedly, the centre table covered in sealed packets of condoms. Three people pile up on top of an armchair that decidedly wasn’t built to take all three of them, and the occasional group makes their way either up or down the stairs, where Jon knows is where the _real_ action’s happening.

He downs his drink and sorely wishes for alcohol, longing for the warm comfort of liquid courage.

Martin places a hand over his knee, rubbing this thumb over it comfortingly. “How you feeling?”

“Nervous.” He looks around, at the people smiling and chatting casually as if this was just another Tuesday for them. One of the ladies at the sofa locks eyes with him and waves, and he blushes, turning back to look at Martin instead. “It doesn’t feel like a sex party quite yet.”

“Wanna go upstairs and see what’s going on?” He asks, gesturing with his head. Jon hesitates for a second before nodding, and Martin takes him by the hand to help him up.

It’s a big house, but Jon can barely take any of it in, distracted as he is. Upstairs, the doors to adjacent rooms are all mostly half-open, and as they walk down the corridor Jon can vaguely see what is happening in them. In one room with a swing pole installed smack dab at the centre, a drag queen dances around it to the sound of pop music, while in the next room a woman lies in the middle of a sumptuous bed, her hands and feet tied spreadeagle to all four bed posts as red wax is dripped all over her body by two men towering over her. In both rooms Jon notes people sitting around the scene, either watching in silence or goading the performers on, and the thought of participating, either by being front and centre on the limelight or simply as a passive observer, sends a shiver down his spine. One door at the end of the hallway is closed almost all the way through, only a small gap left open as if to say _you’re still welcome to come in_ , and Jon can hear people moaning behind it, _loudly_ , a rhythmic _thump thump thump_ echoing somewhere inside. He widens his eyes, all thoughts of _engaging_ vanishing almost immediately from his mind, and quickens his pace to wrap his arms around Martin’s.

“None of these, noted,” Martin nods, giggling, and up one more floor they go.

It’s much quieter up there. Jon has a feeling most people go up to the first floor and just duck into the first room that interests them, thus leaving only the stragglers to come up one more level. Jon looks at a couple of rooms and sees relatively tamer scenes; in one room a naked, squirming man is caressed by his partner with a long feather, and in another he notices someone being thoroughly massaged by three people simultaneously, their back and limbs coated in a thick layer of oil. But Martin walks past these without giving them a second glance, stopping once they reach a room halfway down the corridor. He peeks inside before nodding approvingly, turning to Jon.

“Right. Do you trust me?”

Jon nods back without hesitation. “Yes. Always.”

And in they go.

It’s just another bedroom, simpler than some of the ones they’d just walked through, but the most noticeable thing about it is it's empty. There’s a bed, pushed against one of the walls, and cushions and pillows are strewn about the floor, giving Jon the impression that the bed is set up as a stage and the floor is ready to receive a captivating audience. Martin guides Jon inside, pulling him towards the bed, where they sit down and begin to kiss, the whole thing made tricky by Jon’s beaked mask and Martin’s nearly full-face one, but also _thrilling_. Jon locks eyes with the mirror that covers the opposite wall, purposefully framing the scene, and the picture of him and Martin, wrapped around in a loving embrace, sitting on that unfamiliar bed, sends a thrill down his spine. They don’t look like Jon and Martin at all. At that moment, in that place, they can be _anyone_ , but also no one at all.

Slowly, Martin unbuttons Jon’s shirt, sliding his hands under the fabric and over his shoulders to remove it completely. Jon shudders but allows Martin to lean down and press kisses to his neck and clavicle, and when he next opens his eyes there are three people settling down on the cushions, a fourth walking in, their eyes glued to the two of them. Jon sighs out shakily, tensing up, and Martin pulls away and gently turns Jon’s face to him, searching his eyes for any sign of uncertainty. But they’ve talked about this earlier, and Jon _wants_ to give it a shot, but knows he needs to be guided. Coaxed. Assured he’s _safe_.

Martin rubs a thumb over his cheekbone and the tension in Jon’s body melts a little.

“Focus on me. Okay?”

Jon nods and Martin leans in for another kiss.

It doesn’t take long for Jon to start squirming, and he is, in a way, glad for the silence in the room; the people gathering to watch them are seemingly careful to be as quiet as possible, as if knowing this is the right, respectful way to interact with this particular scene; maybe this was part of some spoken house rule he isn’t aware of, but Jon promptly shuts that thought down before he lets it get away from him, lest it distracts him from the moment. After a couple of minutes Martin pulls away slightly, their lips red and tingly from Jon’s stubble, and he rummages around his tote bag until ambient music begins playing from his portable Bluetooth speaker, slightly muffled by the canvas fabric, something that Martin knows will most definitely soothe Jon. Next comes the ropes; several meters of soft, silken black and silver, that matches his mask perfectly. Jon loves the idea that he’ll look aesthetically pleasing to his rapt audience, artfully and skilfully wrapped in complex shapes and knots until he’s nothing but a beautifully wrapped gift for all to see.

He shudders in anticipation.

“Colour?” Martin asks, allowing Jon to rub the robe between his fingers. He gulps and looks back at the mirror, adjusting his own mask over his face, purposefully not looking directly at the people sitting only a couple of meters away from him and Martin but still catching a glimpse of them at the corner of his eyes. Something warms up inside him and he sighs, turning back to Martin and focusing on unwinding all of his bunched up muscles one by one.

“Green,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.

From there it’s a simple job of taking deep breaths to ground himself and simply allow Martin to move him around. They’d agreed beforehand that Jon would keep his slacks on, but even bare-chested he feels _exposed_. Martin gets off the bed, kneels in front of Jon, and removes his shoes, one by one, with the utmost reverence and veneration, massaging the heel of his feet as he does so. Once Jon is barefoot he climbs back onto the bed, instructing Jon to bring his legs up, kneel upright, drop his arms by his sides. Relax. He whispers words of reassurance that only Jon can hear, private to the two of them despite their audience, and Jon exhales shakily, closing his eyes.

And Martin begins working with the ropes.

It’s slow, meticulous work. He works on a knot here, a diamond-shape there, runs his fingers through the gaps and asks Jon every step of the way if the pressure is either too restricting or not restricting enough. Jon responds in kind, at times hesitant but always trusting; he loves the feeling of the ropes embracing him, loves how careful and meticulous Martin is when he works on them. It makes him feel _loved_ in just several different ways, and throughout the process he just shut his mind off and drifts, eyes shut, knowing he doesn’t have to see the people observing him to _feel_ their gaze upon him, heavy and present, but not at all in an overwhelming way; it’s more like he’s being loved, adored, admired. It feels like a tickle at the back of his neck, showering him with praise. No judgement, no shame. Just adoration.

When Martin finishes with the ropes that tie Jon’s hands together behind his back he runs his hands up and down his arms in a soothing gesture, leaning down to praise him as he presses kisses over his shoulders and nape. Jon breathes out shakily and risks opening his eyes, and the sight that meets him in the mirror is nearly indescribable. He can see Martin, kneeling up behind him, looking back at him with a familiar heat in his eyes, and he can see himself, back ramrod straight, a perfectly symmetrical geometry of lines running through his body, framing his torso and limbs in a beautiful crisscross of dark, shimmering rope.

And he can of course see that the people sitting or strewn around the room in front of him are watching him intently, some of them palming themselves through their trousers, all of them very much interested in him and absolutely nothing else.

Another shudder runs through Jon. He exhales, long and hard, bowing his head as he closes his eyes again. Martin moves until he’s in his field of vision and places a warm, soft palm over his cheek.

“Colour?” He asks, softly. Jon breathes in, slowly and deeply, trying to compartmentalize everything that he’s feeling.

He feels restless, mostly. There’s a thrumming energy running through him that almost makes him uncomfortable, although that wasn’t quite right. He feels _loved_ , _wanted_ , and it is positively _intoxicating_. He’s also beginning to feel fuzzy around the edges, a telltale signal that he might be approaching subspace, which is always a good sign. It means that he feels _safe_.

“Green,” he whispers, opening his eyes just a sliver to glance at Martin, who smiles and angles his head so he can slot their lips together for a quick kiss.

“We’re almost done, love,” he says, and Jon closes his eyes again, letting himself go.

The rope is wrapped around his thighs, framing his cock through his trousers, then Martin helps Jon sit down with his legs straight forward in front of him. He sighs with relief at not having to focus on keeping upright anymore, focusing instead on the feeling of the rope pressing against his thighs as he settles down onto the bed. Martin then moves down and wraps his legs together, and by the time he’s finished Jon is _floating_ , feeling positively cocooned, warm and content.

He barely notices when Martin moves him until he’s lying down, only half listens to his soothing words as he runs his fingers through his hair, the other hand petting him where the rope is digging into his skin. It feels _so nice_ , and with the added bonus of the audience _just there_ , paying close attention to the scene in front of them, thoroughly entranced by _Jon himself_ , it’s enough to make Jon moan softly, a blush running up his cheeks and warming his entire body. Martin reaches down until his hand was running over his thighs and crotch, and Jon in response leans up into the touch, shuddering and moaning louder as he basks in the sensations, allowing them to overtake him.

The minutes drag on, Jon floating in and out of awareness, squirming and nuzzling against Martin in pure bliss. Jon loses track of time, but Martin eventually begins the process of gradually bringing Jon back to reality, and by the time the first few knots are undone Jon is feeling more like himself, his thoughts much clearer and coherent.

He looks to the side as he’s moved to a sitting position, his legs freed, and notices the room is empty once more, the door firmly shut. Jon stares, blinking, dazed.

“How are you feeling?” Martin asks as he firmly massages Jon’s newly-freed arms, and Jon hums, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders to feel the pleasant ache and soreness in his muscles.

“Better than I thought. T-thank you, Martin, I–” But Martin interrupts him with a kiss to his lips, pulling back with a kind, gentle smile.

“Anything for you, love,” he says, so _earnestly_ it makes Jon tear up, and he leans back in for a longer, deeper kiss.

A couple of hours later, when the’re back on their flat, huddled on the sofa with a box of pizza over both their laps, Martin wordlessly pulls his phone out and offers it to Jon, who makes a questioning noise before taking it to get a better look at whatever Martin pulled up for him on the screen.

To his astonishment, it’s a picture of _him_ , most likely taken when he’d just entered subspace; he’s laying down, head tilted to the side and hair splayed over the bed in a messy salt and pepper halo, his neck and the full length of the beaked mask on full display, the ropes lovingly wrapped around him, covering nearly every inch of his body. He looks breathtakingly _beautiful_ , and the thought makes his heart beat faster.

“I can delete it if you want,” Martin whispers, uncertain, when the silence stretches on for a bit too long, but Jon shakes his head emphatically, leaning over to kiss him.

“No, I– I love it. I really do. _Thank you_.”

Jon saves the photo to his own phone and thinks to himself that he most definitely wouldn’t mind repeating the experience, just as long as Martin is there to hold him all the way through.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's curious, here's [Jon’s mask](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/32/9c/39/329c39a763d878d120040769f4503f40.jpg) and [Martin’s mask](https://i.ebayimg.com/thumbs/images/g/KQgAAOSw5Spbyij8/s-l225.jpg) :3c


End file.
